


warm love, softly

by CivilWhere



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Birthday Sex, Dirty Talk, Feelings, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Oral Sex, Phone Sex, Rimming, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 11:30:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20063308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CivilWhere/pseuds/CivilWhere
Summary: Quentin locks the phone and tosses it onto the bed, rolling over and smashing his face into a pillow. Today is his birthday, everyone he knows is off on a quest or literally on a different planet, and now something is probably definitely wrong, despite what Eliot's text may say."Ugh," he says into the pillow.The pillow, thankfully, stays silent. So at least he doesn't have to deal with a haunted pillow today, Quentin thinks. Small mercies.------For his 27th birthday, Quentin Coldwater gets some disappointing news, quality phone sex, three sips of very good scotch, an orgasm, and a few surprises.





	warm love, softly

**Author's Note:**

> This is set post-season 4 in a universe where the finale wasn't… that. The specifics aren't important, but Eliot is no longer possessed, and the Monster and his sister are no longer threats. Everett and the Library have been defeated, and Quentin is very much alive. He and Alice have decided to be friends, and he and Eliot are together and have been working on their relationship — and individual trauma — for a few months. Neither of these points matter for this story, but just for the sake of setting things right: Julia didn't have her choice taken away by a man, and Kady never said anything about only ever wanting to be Penny's girlfriend.

Quentin wakes up in waves: slowly, languidly, indulgently, alone in a king size bed and well into the morning. The overstuffed duvet is twisted between his legs, wrapped around his torso, and bunched up in his arms. He stretches and tangles himself up further in the soft, white linen.

A buzz from the bedside table draws his attention. Bringing the phone far too close to his face, he squints at the screen, letting his brain catch up. There are two unread texts, probably what woke him in the first place. He slides his thumb across the screen and brings up the messages from Eliot.

**happy birthday, Q!! everything is fine, don't worry, but you should call me**

Received thirty four minutes ago. And then the second, one minute ago: 

**seriously don't worry. i know you're probably going to as soon as you see these but don't. but do call**

The next message comes while he's reading the others.

**i love you**

Quentin locks the phone and tosses it onto the bed, rolling over and smashing his face into a pillow. Today is his birthday, everyone he knows is off on a quest or literally on a different planet, and now something is probably definitely wrong, despite what Eliot's text may say. 

"Ugh," he says into the pillow. 

The pillow, thankfully, stays silent. So at least he doesn't have to deal with a haunted pillow today, Quentin thinks. Small mercies. 

He gives himself a moment to suck breath through the fabric of the pillow before he rolls over and locates his phone. Eliot picks up after two rings. 

"Hey birthday boy," he says, sounding like someone who is definitely trying to pretend nothing is wrong.

"Hey," Quentin tries to say back, but it comes out half garbled. Clearing the sleep from his throat, he tries again. "Hey." 

"I promise nothing is wrong."

"But?"

"But we're not going to make it back today. I'm really sorry, sweetheart. We're almost done, but it's more complex than we thought and if we stop now—"

Quentin tries to push down the disappointment. "Its okay. It's fine. It doesn't matter."

"It's your birthday, Quentin." Eliot sounds pained. 

"Yeah, but. I'm 27. It's not even a big one. And I stopped caring about my birthday a long time ago, anyway. Summer birthdays are kinda…" Quentin trails off, feeling self conscious about revealing that he never really got over that whole 'not having a birthday during the school year so at least your class was forced to celebrate it' thing. It feels juvenile to explain. "It's really okay. I'm an adult."

"I wanted to be there." 

"Well. Next year," Quentin offers. 

"Absolutely next year. I promise." 

Even through the compression of the phone, Quentin can hear the sincerity. He wants to say something about that being unnecessary, but he recognizes that the instinct comes from wanting to preempt the promise being broken, so he says nothing instead.

After a moment of silence, Eliot continues. "We're actually in the middle of excavating what's supposed to be the last section, and I need to get back to helping. But I'll have some downtime during the translations. Do you want me to call back then? I could slip away, maybe we could…" His voice is low with suggestiveness, which does somewhat raise Quentin's spirits. Among other things. 

"Eliot Waugh, are you proposing we have phone sex in the middle of your very important mission while you're surrounded by a handful of our friends and, from what you've told me, like half a dozen very stuffy archaeologists?" he asks, really hoping that the answer is yes. 

"It's not like they'd be in the tent with me. Besides, silencing spells exist for a reason."

"I don't think the reason is phone sex." Quentin rolls his eyes even though Eliot can't see him. "But. I could be persuaded."

"Oh yeah?" Eliot dips his pitch again like they're sharing a secret. Which, Quentin realizes with a little thrill, they technically are. "And what would it take to persuade you?"

"Send me a picture of you."

"A naughty picture?" Eliot sounds delighted.

"A picture of you in the, you know, archaeological gear," Quentin corrects. Or, somewhat corrects, given that the assumption wasn't entirely off in the first place. 

"Oh my sweet, darling nerd. You want me to be your Indy?" Eliot asks, as if he doesn't already know all about that fantasy. 

"Well not if you're going to make fun of me for it." Quentin decidedly does not pout. That would be ridiculous. 

"Sadly for both of us, it's not nearly as dashing as in the movies. More hardhats and headlamps. So I'm pretty sure you're going to be the one making fun of me. But I'll send you a photo. And I'll call back when I can."

"Thanks." Quentin wants to say that he'd be happy to see Eliot in anything at all, but that feels too raw. Instead, he adds, "I miss you, El."

"I miss you, Q. I love you. I'll call soon."

"Love you." 

Quentin waits for the call to disconnect, and then throws himself into the pillow again. He's half hard and vaguely upset, which isn't a great combination. 

It's not that he minds being alone for his birthday. If he's honest, it's one of the better outcomes — certainly preferable to having high expectations dashed or being let down by a few fake friends (or one sympathetic one and her pity, even though Julia had really tried her best to salvage a few before Quentin started swearing off birthdays all together). For the past couple of years, he'd been too busy with life or death situations to really think about his birthday, and that was pretty okay. 

Now that things have calmed down (relatively speaking), well — it's not that he minds being alone. But he does mind not being with Eliot. 

The work Eliot and Margo and Kady are doing is important. He knows that. In fact, he'd offered to go, but their magic was more suited for the task of excavation than his, and he was still on the mend from a nasty Fillorian summer flu a few of them had caught. And everyone had thought they'd be back in a few days. 

That had been eleven days ago. Not that Quentin was counting. 

And it’s not that Quentin feels left out. Sure, Alice and Julia are liaising with the Underworld branch of the Library, Fen and Josh are off in Fillory dealing with the flu that they’re both apparently immune to, and Penny23 is splitting his time between providing transportation support to all three groups (despite his frequent snips about not being a taxi) and working with Fogg to develop a less haphazard Traveler curriculum for Brakebills in exchange for his diploma. But it’s not like he would want to be doing any of those things in particular anyway. 

So it had seemed reasonable for him to agree to take a few days of rest to get fully recovered. He had some reading he'd been wanting to find time for, and to say that he could have used a nap would have been the understatement of the year. Plus, Eliot tends to worry about him more openly now that they’re together, and Quentin likes the way it makes him happy when he takes better care of himself. 

A week and a half later, Quentin is bored out of his mind. 

His phone buzzes, and he opens it to a selfie of Eliot, hardhat and headlamp firmly in place but still looking unbelievably attractive. He's in a chambray button down that's halfway to filthy with what he assumes is cave grime, and has a pickaxe (that Quentin is pretty sure he doesn't actually need to use for magical excavating) swung over his shoulder. His lopsided grin and bedroom eyes make Quentin's stomach flutter like he's a kid with a crush. 

Unsurprisingly, Quentin is pretty into it, but rather than get him in the mood like it would any other time, today the picture just makes Quentin miss Eliot more, which in turn makes him feel that much more alone. And that, he thinks, is entirely unfair. Or at least uncalled for. 

Figuring his best means of distraction are to actually get out of bed, he gets up and goes through his morning routine. Or, near-noon routine, as the case may be now. All of it manages to kill enough time to get him to lunch. He pulls on boxer briefs and jeans and heads to the kitchen to scrounge for something edible.

He thinks about magicking a birthday candle into his bowl of cereal for the irony, but it feels too performative. 

There's research he can do (when isn't there?), and he kills a few hours on that. He tidies up the room he and Eliot have been sharing, because the cleaning charms built into the apartment weren't great at knowing where to put away clothes, and they'd collectively agreed to dismantle the more uncooperative ones after all of Alice's bras had ended up in Josh's dresser for the third time, which was awkward for the two of them and very amusing for everyone else. 

The apartment itself doesn't really need any cleaning, so instead Quentin spends a few minutes staring into the fridge like he might go grocery shopping, but doesn't make a list. As evening sets in, he considers going for a walk. He considers getting himself off to kill some time. He considers texting Penny to see if he'll travel him to the dig site so he can show up and put the tent's silencing spell to good use in person. 

He does none of these things, however, because as he's contemplating, his phone rings. 

"Is this a good time?" Eliot asks.

"Actually, I'm super busy," Quentin says, just to be difficult. "But maybe I can find a few minutes between all of this sitting around being useless and doing fuckall, and staring at the Netflix menu for half an hour without watching anything." 

"Did we decide on a pity party in lieu of a birthday party?" Eliot quips back, but Quentin can hear the concern in his voice.

"I know, I'm just — I don't know what I was expecting 27 to be like, but I don't think this was it."

Eliot laughs, but it's kind, gentle. "You didn't expect to find yourself in a gorgeous apartment that you live in mostly rent free with your devastatingly dashing boyfriend and an assortment of your closest friends, having defeated a fascist magic-controlling Librarian regime _and_ a pair of unkillable murder babies, and now be working to restore order and make magic more accessible for all? And also setting to rights an entire magical land you once thought was only a story?" 

"Okay, well.” Quentin sighs. “When you put it that way, I've got a lot going for me, huh?" 

He’s honestly a little surprised, but mostly he genuinely does feel at least somewhat better. And vaguely accomplished. And pretty damn loved. Recently, Eliot has been helping him do some of the worksheets Quentin's therapist sends him home with, and apparently the positive reframing parts have stuck with him. 

"You're doing amazing, Q. But I am sorry I'm not going to make it home today. I really wanted to slather myself in icing and have you lick your birthday treat off of my naked body."

Quentin laughs, although he’s fairly sure Eliot is only partly joking. "That sounds like quite the celebration"

"You want me to tell you what I really wish we were doing right now?"

"Uh-huh.” Quentin takes a moment to collect himself. He was hoping this was coming, but it still takes him off guard, Eliot just openly _wanting_ him like this. “Are you, um. Is the tent all silenced and everything?" 

No matter how many times they do this, Quentin is sure he will always be bumbling and awkward at the start. Somehow, through some divine grace, Eliot honestly finds it attractive. 

"Yeah. I'm all alone, stretched out on top of this horrible sleeping bag and missing you terribly."

"Let me, uh." Quentin doesn't run to the bedroom, but he does move at a clipped pace. "Okay, I'm gonna get on the bed?" 

"Is that a question?” Eliot teases, and then his tone shifts as he catches on. “Oh, do you want me to tell you what to do? In the mood to take orders, birthday boy?" 

Quentin will never stop being grateful that Eliot seems to so often know exactly what he wants, sometimes before Quentin himself knows it. "I—yeah, El.” His voice comes out breathy, needy. “Tell me what to do."

"Okay, gorgeous. Strip down completely and get on the bed for me. On top of the blankets. I want to imagine you naked and laid out for me like a feast."

"Give me a second," Quentin says, pressing the phone between his shoulder and the side of his face to keep it in place while he undoes his pants and kicks them off along with his boxers. He spreads out on top of the duvet. "Okay, I'm here and naked and all yours." 

"Yeah you are," Eliot purrs down the line. "What kind of birthday sex would you like me to paint you a word picture of?"

"I thought you were the one in charge here?" Quentin says. 

"I just want to make sure your wildest dreams all come true."

"That would be you showing up and having your way with me.” He doesn’t hide the touch of bitterness. “But given the circumstances, how about you tell me exactly what you'd do with me if you came home and found me naked and spread out for you like this, with my hands tied to the headboard?"

"Fuck, Q.” Eliot groans. “Is that something you've been thinking about doing for me?" 

"I, um. Yeah,” he confesses, trying to sound like this isn’t something he’s been thinking about — craving, wanting, getting himself off to the idea of — for days on end. “I thought it might be fun. Some time."

"You're too good for me. You're perfect.” Eliot is half breathless, and Quentin thrills at knowing it’s because of him. “I'd love to find you like that, trussed up and exposed just for me. I'd have to touch you everywhere to show you how much I appreciate the surprise."

Quentin lets out a frustrated little sound, squirming on the bed. He’s hard and wants badly to start working his cock, but he also wishes Eliot were there to bind his hands and tease him. 

“Are you touching yourself, Q?” Eliot asks. 

“No. Not yet. You didn’t say.” 

“Perfect. Run your hand down your chest for me. Take your time with it. That’s what I’m gonna do: get my hands and mouth all over your gorgeous body, work you over nice and slow.”

Quentin runs his hand over a nipple, across his ribcage, down his stomach. He keeps his touches light, trying to imagine it’s Eliot.

"And then when I've kissed you everywhere, I'll strip down for you, maybe put on a little show."

With anyone else, it might be an empty promise — stripping is, by and large, much hotter to talk about than to actually watch someone do, at least in a quiet bedroom — but with Eliot, he knows exactly how serious he is. It’s not that there isn’t an element of awkwardness to it, when he strips, but he leans into it, laughs about it, makes it part of the experience. And for Quentin, that makes it familiar and intimate and sexy as hell. 

"Love to watch you, El," Quentin whispers into the phone, working his hand down his lower stomach, across to his hip bone. 

“Mmm,” Eliot hums. "You're my favorite audience. So appreciative."

"I am."

Eliot laughs softly and continues. "And you know me, I like to tease. So once I've drawn the whole thing out a bit and I’m finally completely bare for you, I'll take my very soft, silky tie and skim it over your body, starting at your feet and slowing working my way up your legs, over your hips, across your stomach and along your rib cage, up your throat, until I get to your face."

Quentin moves his hand in the other direction, circling his cock but not touching himself yet. 

"Will you let me blindfold you, sweetheart?"

He sucks in a sharp breath. They haven't done sensory deprivation, not in this lifetime at least, but they've been building up to it now that things are getting better. 

The first few times they'd had sex, Quentin couldn't even close his eyes — partially because he needed the constant confirmation that Eliot was there with him, but also because he needed the constant confirmation that it _was Eliot_ there with him. Now, he's okay closing his eyes or being on his stomach or not looking at Eliot the entire time, but they haven't gone as far as an actual blindfold. Not yet. 

He wants to, though. He wants to trust Eliot with that. He wants to _show him_ that he trusts him with that. 

"It's okay if you don't want to. I won't be disappointed, I promise,” Eliot says softly. 

Quentin realizes he hasn’t answered yet. "No. I want to. Blindfold me. I want you to." He’s insistent, eager, and he hopes Eliot can hear that in this voice. 

"Thank you. I'm going to take such good care of you." Eliot sounds somewhere between relieved and reverential. 

"I know. I trust you, El."

"Fuck, I love you.” He pulls in breath hard enough that Quentin can hear it through the phone. “Where was I? Oh, right. I was telling you how I'm going to take my tie and gently place it over your eyes and secure it so you can't see me, but you can feel me. I'm not going to stop touching you the whole time. You're always going to know it's me,” Eliot assures him. 

"I do. I do know."

"Once you're blindfolded, I'm going to straddle you and spend minutes just kissing you. I love kissing you. Have I told you that?"

Quentin tries to think about it, but he keeps getting lost in the haze of his arousal. "I don't think so. I can’t really… think too well right now," he answers honestly. 

Eliot sounds almost wistful when he continues. "I really do. Your mouth is so soft and perfect, and we just fit so well, you know?" 

"Yeah. We do."

"It's like you were made for me, Quentin Coldwater. Like you were made to be kissed by me and held by me and fucked by me," Eliot half-whispers like he's giving confession. "Like you were made to be mine." 

Quentin groans. He doesn’t know what it says about him, but Eliot being possessive makes his skin hot and sends his stomach into little flips.

"Are you touching your cock yet?" Eliot asks. 

"You — you didn't say to."

"That's my perfect Q. So good, so obedient. Touch your cock for me, sweetheart."

He finally, _finally_ wraps his hand around his aching erection. "Fuck, Eliot."

Eliot pauses for half a moment while Quentin practically pants down the line, and then keeps going. "After I've spent a great deal of time licking into your mouth and biting at your lips and kissing you senseless, I'm going to move on to your throat. Can I mark you?"

All of Quentin’s possessiveness boxes are really getting checked tonight, it seems. "Yeah. Mark me up, wherever you want."

"I want everyone to know your mine.” There’s a hint of a growl on the last word that makes Quentin shiver. “I'm going to suck little bruises down your throat and across your collarbone. And then I'm going to take my time teasing your nipples, one by one. Can you roll one between your fingers for me right now, Q?"

Securing the phone between his head and the pillow, Quentin reaches down. He pinches his left nipple and arches his back, gasping.

"You make the most delicious sounds. I want to make you make those sounds for the rest of our lives."

"Fuck," Quentin whispers. Eliot says things like this every so often lately, about forever and the rest of their lives and only ever wanting this, and no matter how many times he hears it, it's always the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to Quentin. "I want that, El. I want you."

"I'm gonna give you everything,” he promises, and every part of Quentin believes him. “I'm going to lick and nip and kiss my way down your stomach, maybe suck a few marks over your hips. Those will be just for you. So that every time you look in the mirror, you think about my mouth on you."

"Always thinking about your mouth on me," Quentin points out with a huff of a laugh. 

"Soon. I promise. But first, I’m going to work my way down to right next to that perfect cock of yours. I'm gonna lick at the seam of your legs and spread you open and kiss over your balls and your thighs and everywhere, everywhere except your cock. Can you wait for me, Q? Can you be good and patient for me?"

"No," Quentin hisses, and Eliot laughs. 

"Well, maybe you're right. Maybe the birthday boy shouldn't have to wait."

"Mhmm," Quentin agrees. 

"In that case, I'm going to lick up the underside of your cock and work my tongue around the head, and then I'm going to swallow you down deep, all in one go, until you're pressed against the back of my throat, and then I'm gonna take even more of you."

His cock is leaking now, and he spreads the precum down his shaft as he glides his hand from tip to base, base to tip. "God, fuck, yes"

"You wanna fuck my throat?” Eliot asks. “Because that's what I want, love. I know it's going to be so frustrating for you to not be able to bury your hands in my hair and push me down onto your cock because you’re all tied up for me, so beautifully. But I want you to take that frustration out on my mouth. I want you bucking your hips up and fucking into my mouth as hard and as deep as you want. Make me choke on your cock, Q."

"God, Eliot, yeah. I wanna fuck up into your mouth. So good. Your mouth is — it's the best, El.” He knows he’s barely making sense, but he also knows Eliot loves when he gets like this, and the soft rhythm of Eliot working his own cock from the other end of the line is proof that now is no exception. 

"Damn right it is,” he preens. “I want you to fuck my mouth until you're so close, until you're right on the edge. And when you feel like you're about to come for me, I want you to tell me, okay?"

This gives Quentin pause. "Hmm,” he says, considering, slowing his hand just a little on his cock. 

"I'll make it worth it, I swear."

He laughs breathily into the phone. "Okay. Okay."

"When you tell me you're just about to come, I'm going to pull off—" 

"No," Quentin whines like Eliot is really there, depriving him of his hot, wet mouth. 

"Shh, lover. I said I was going to take care of you, didn't I?"

"Hmm." Quentin considers again. 

"I'm going to pull off of your cock, and I'm going to work my way down to your hole, kissing and licking and sucking as I move down."

That’s a compromise he can accept, and he tells Eliot as much, to another soft breath of laughter.

"Good. I'm going to spread you open and lick you out. You're so hot under my tongue, sweetheart. I love how loud you get for me when I eat you out.”

Quentin moans, not unlike how he does when Eliot has his tongue teasing at his hole. 

“I'm going to get you all slick, work my tongue in little circles. Gonna slide over your hole gently, just barely touching you, before I start in with fast little licks that turn into nice and slow ones. And when you're absolutely squirming for me, when you're trying to push back against me, when you sound like you're going mad with wanting me, I'm going to push my tongue into your ass and fuck you with it as best I can."

Eliot’s voice in his ear combines with his memories of exactly how good Eliot is with his tongue, and Quentin’s hips are half off the bed he’s so tightly wound. 

"I'm gonna make you feel so good with my mouth. And then I'm going to finger you open.”

Gasping, Quentin thinks about working a finger into himself to match the words, but he knows any more stimulation and he’ll come before Eliot tells him too, and he wants to badly to be good for him. 

“Gonna work one finger into you while I lick at where it's disappearing into you,” Eliot continues, “making sure every second of this feels amazing. I don't want you to be uncomfortable for even a moment. Only pleasure for you. Then I'm going to work a second finger in, and eventually, after a nice long time, I'll work in a third. And I'm going to finger you open and lick at your hole until you're begging me to fuck you. Until you're nearly crying from how badly you want me to take you.” 

Quentin isn’t sure he’s far from that point right now. He wants to say so, but more than that he wants to keep listening, to hang on every filthy, perfect word Eliot is saying. 

“And then I'm going to pull my fingers out of you and take off the blindfold and I'm going to look in your eyes while I ease my cock into you and make love to you, Quentin Coldwater."

"Fuck, El. Eliot. I want that. I want you. I'm so close, please," he begs.

"Hold out for me a little longer. You can do it." 

"Okay. Okay,” he agrees, because the only better way to come during phone sex than with Eliot’s words in his ear is to come to the sound of Eliot’s orgasm on the other end of the line. “God. I really miss you."

"I miss you — fuck, hold on."

Quentin hears rustling and then a shouted "Just a minute!" from Eliot to someone else, and then muffled voices. It doesn't sound like an emergency, so he tries not to worry while he waits, still ridiculously close to coming despite the sudden interruption. 

A few moments later, Eliot returns to the line. His voice is tight with annoyance. "I am desperately needed, apparently. I'm so sorry to leave, I really — "

Quentin feels like he's been doused with cold water, but he can pull apart his arousal and annoyance well enough to recognize that it's not Eliot's fault. "It's okay. You're a very important magician, have to go off and do very important magic." 

"You're the most understanding ever. Thank you. I'm so sorry. I owe you a mind-blowing orgasm and I intend to deliver as soon as I can."

"Hmm, hopefully more than one."

"For the rest of our lives, Q. But now I've got to run. It's extremely unfair that I have to miss dopey post-orgasm pillow talk with you. I love when you're like that."

"I love when you're like everything all the time," Quentin mumbles into the phone. He knows it's not quite logical, but he's half still too turned on to think and more than half filled with affection at Eliot's promises and fuck it, he's going to be sweet with his boyfriend. 

"Same to you, sweetheart. I'll let you know when we have a return ETA, okay? Shouldn't be too much longer, a few days at most."

"Okay, El. Go be amazing at magic."

"Happy birthday, Q," Eliot says softly, and then he hangs up. 

Quentin considers getting himself off to finish the job, but it feels hollow now without Eliot's voice in his ear. He lets himself drift for a while in the lazy pleasure of his lingering arousal and the soft warmth of hearing Eliot say things like love and forever with ease before doing a quick tut to freshen himself up and going to find his underwear. He pulls the boxer briefs up — they're all black and nicer than most of his other pairs; a particular favorite of Eliot's, not that it matters — and wanders through the apartment. 

He thinks about going into the balcony for a cigarette, but he only really smokes when there's someone else doing it these days. Instead he wanders over to the bar cart, pours himself two fingers of expensive scotch, and settles in for a nice birthday drink. 

Apparently he also settles in for a nice birthday nap; he wakes up an indeterminate amount of time later to the sound of footsteps. 

Scrambling for something to cover himself with, he ends up pulling a massive throw pillow with a fluffy, furry cover into his lap. The wards on this place are incredible, so he's not worried about who it could be, but that doesn't mean he wants one of his friends walking in on him in his underwear. 

Eliot comes into the living room in a flurry and looks surprised and a bit confused to find Quentin there. "Did you get drunk and fall asleep naked on the sofa?" he asks, seemingly delighted at the prospect. 

Quentin clears his throat. "No, I uh. Had like three sips of scotch and fell asleep in my underwear on the sofa," he confesses, moving the pillow out of his lap. Eliot looks slightly disappointed at the lack of nudity but shamelessly checks him out anyway. "I thought you weren't going to be back for a few more days."

"Yeah, I decided fuck that. I don't want to miss a single one of my boyfriend's birthdays, starting now. I had Penny pop me in and then fuck off. And I told him we're going to be having tremendous amounts of sex all over the apartment, so that should give us a decent amount of privacy."

"Oh. Wow. Um, thank you. That's — " Quentin swallows. It seems ridiculous getting emotional over this, and he doesn't really know where it's coming from. There's something there — something about the idea of never being alone again on his birthday, and that being because Eliot loves him and gets him and wants to spend the rest of his life with him — that he can't quite articulate, but it's all hitting him in this very sideways way that feels almost like grief but in reverse, a sense of wholeness welling up and filling him and it's. A lot.

"Hey," Eliot says, crossing the room to stand in front of him. "It's okay, Q." He takes Quentin's hand and looks down at him and waits in the quiet, understanding way that Quentin needs. Quentin does his breathing exercises and lets himself settle, and then nods up at Eliot. 

"Thanks, uh," he laughs, running his hand through his hair. "I don't know. It just — hearing you say that just means a lot." 

Eliot looks down at him and tilts his head, like he's listening to a question. Quentin watches as he seems to reach a decision. 

"Give me just a second. I'll be right back."

Eliot heads to their bedroom. Quentin hears the scrape of a drawer opening, which he guesses makes sense — Eliot would want to change into something clean, something more comfortable, although he'd clearly spelled the cave grime away before coming home and looked pretty great in Quentin's opinion. 

It's confusing, then, when Eliot comes back into the living room in the same clothes and crosses over to Quentin with intention. He kneels down in front of the sofa and takes one of Quentin's hands in his. 

"Look, I know I said just a minute ago that I don't ever want to miss another one of my boyfriend's birthdays. But. That wasn't entirely accurate."

Quentin's mind starts spinning. Is Eliot leaving? Can something have possibly happened in those thirty seconds he was in the bedroom? Did he change his mind? 

"What I really meant to say," Eliot continues, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small wooden box, "is that I don't want to ever miss another one of my husband's birthdays."

He opens the box to reveal a ring, silver and ornately carved with sloping peaks that resemble Quentin's Fillorian crown. 

"So," Eliot starts, just as Quentin realizes that Eliot is down on _one knee_ in a pose he definitely recognizes but never really thought he’d see in front of him. "Destiny. It's bullshit." 

Quentin smiles, feeling nearly high with giddiness. The part of his brain that's still capable of coherent thought already knows he's not going to make it through this without crying. (The rest of his brain is just chanting "yes, yes, yes.")

"But you're meant for me," Eliot continues. "And I'm meant for you. Through lifetimes and worlds and the weirdest, most ridiculous shit imaginable. And somehow, that makes sense. We had a lifetime together and you came back wanting more, which is the most goddamn incredible thing." Eliot takes a breath like he's bracing himself. "But I was scared. And I fucked up. And that almost cost me everything."

The look on Eliot's face is open and raw, and Quentin wants to gather him into his arms and tell him he's not going anywhere, but he waits while Eliot keeps going. 

"I swear, to you and to whatever gods or monsters or mystical beings are out there, that I will never, ever make the mistake of running away from this — from you — again." 

Quentin is crying now, or at least he thinks he is, because his cheeks feel wet and he keeps having to blink to clear his eyes. 

Eliot seems to be on the edge of tears too, looking up at Quentin with watery eyes full of hope. He's older and healthier, less drawn now, but he also looks so much like he did that day on the mountain in Fillory, kneeling in front of Quentin while he crowned him High King, that for a second the world tilts and Quentin feels a touch of vertigo. 

"I know it might be too soon," Eliot says, bringing Quentin back to the present. "But in a way, it's also far too late, and I don't want to spend another minute without making it as clear as I can to you and to the world that I fully intend to spend every day of the rest of my life loving you. So, Quentin Makepeace Coldwater, the question I should have asked you a lifetime ago: will you marry me?" 

"Yes. Fuck yes. God, Eliot I — Yes."

Eliot holds up his palm and Quentin places his hand in it. The ring is cool and heavy and a little too loose as it slides onto his finger, but Eliot does a tut and the metal tightens just enough to be a perfect fit. 

Eliot's eyes are wet, and Quentin is going to absolutely lose it himself if Eliot starts crying in ernest, so he grabs at his hands and pulls him onto the sofa on top of him. 

They're kissing when Eliot isn't even fully on top of him yet, mouths hungry and desperate and yearning. Eliot settles between Quentin's open legs and presses down into him, driving their hips together. 

"Fuck, El."

Eliot pants against Quentin's mouth. "I still owe you a birthday orgasm." 

"Mhmm. And I think I owe you a 'thanks for beating me to proposing because I was probably going to be really awkward about it' orgasm," Quentin agrees with a laugh. 

Eliot pulls back a little, enough that he can look at Quentin properly. "Were you really thinking about proposing too?" he asks, searching his eyes. 

"Um, yeah. I hadn't gotten a ring yet or anything but. It was a thing."

"God, Q." Pressing his lips against Quentin's again, Eliot licks at the seam and thrusts his hips down until Quentin gasps and Eliot can slide his tongue inside.

Quentin hooks his calves around Eliot's legs and grinds up against him. "We should probably — bedroom." 

"Penny has been forewarned. If he travels anyone into this house right now, it's on him."

"Fair, but I also don't want to have to explain to Kady why we ruined all of her nice furniture, and the kinds of things I want to do to you would absolutely destroy this sofa beyond any hope of minor mending."

"Fuck. When you put it like that." Eliot leans back and twists and manages to stand elegantly. Quentin nearly falls off of the sofa trying to follow. 

By the time they reach their room, there’s clothing scattered along the way and they're both completely naked. (Quentin notices the folding tut Eliot does before closing the door, but doesn't call him on it.) 

"Tell me what you want, sweetheart," Eliot says softly, walking Quentin over to the bed. 

"I just. Wow this is,” Quentin runs a hand through his hair, “the sappiest thing I'm probably ever going to say, and I fully expect you to make fun of me mercilessly. But. I just want my future husband to make love to me."

"Fuck. Why is that so hot?" 

"Got a secret monogamy kink, Waugh?" 

"I don't know. Do you, future Mr. Coldwater-Waugh?" 

"Wow. Apparently I might." Quentin's laugh turns into a moan when Eliot cups his erection before letting him go and pushing him gently toward the bed.

"Spread out for me, gorgeous. Let me look at the man I'm going to marry," Eliot coaxes. 

Quentin lies back on the duvet, equal parts blushing and hot under Eliot's gaze. 

"I know I promised a lot of very involved and intricate things earlier on the phone. But I really just want to be inside of you," he confesses. 

"Yes. Please, El." 

"Still gonna get you so ready for me though."

"It's been ages," Quentin whines. 

The look Eliot gives him is half unimpressed, half fond. "It's been like a week and a half."

"_Ages_. I'm too empty without you." He makes room for Eliot between his legs, not bothering to pretend to be anything but wanton.

"I know. I'm gonna fill you up, Q. Gonna fill you up so good." 

The jar of very nice, endlessly slick lube Margo had given them as a 'congratulations on getting your heads out of your asses and finally getting into each other's asses' gift (as detailed on the accompanying card) is sitting on the bedside table, and Eliot calls it to him with an effortless gesture. 

When Eliot teases a slick finger around his hole, Quentin rocks his hips forward, trying to take him deeper. 

"Settle for me, love," he tells him, but Quentin doesn't want to settle. He wants to fuck himself on Eliot's fingers and take his cock as soon as he's able. He knows, however, that Eliot won't let him rush things and risk hurting himself, so he tries to keep still. 

"Kiss me," he says instead of protesting as Eliot works him open slowly. And Eliot does. 

He takes another one of Eliot's fingers while they're kissing, and then a third while Eliot sucks a bruise into his throat.

"Mark me up. Claim me." Quentin moans while Eliot worries his skin with his teeth. 

Eliot pulls back for a moment. "Already did," he says, reaching over with the hand that isn't working Quentin open and tapping on the ring. 

"Mmm, that's true, isn't it?" Quentin places that hand on Eliot's jaw to direct him up for another kiss. "Take me," he pants into his mouth. 

"You sure?" Eliot asks. 

"I need you. I'm ready. Please," Quentin begs. He's never been above begging, not with Eliot. 

Quentin moans when Eliot slides his fingers out slowly, trying his best not to press up into the slick, blunt head of Eliot's cock as soon as he can feel it lined up at his hole. 

"El, fuck me." He moans again, and this time, Eliot does as he's told. 

It's a stretch every time no matter how much time they spend on prep, taking Eliot's huge cock. But as the heat and pressure build, the discomfort gives way to fullness and pleasure, and Quentin needs more. 

"Move. Please. I want — " He's half incoherent already. "I need you."

"Okay love. I'm going to give you everything you need."

And he does. He fucks in and out of Quentin, grazing his prostate each time. Not enough to build to something, just enough to make Quentin groan and pant and whimper. 

"El, _please_." His hands slide down Eliot's back, grabbing at his ass to pull him deeper, trying to get him to drive into him harder.

Eliot bends forward and kisses him, and the change in angle is everything Quentin needs, pressing Eliot's cock right against that perfect spot again and again. "I love you," he whispers against Quentin's skin. "And I'm going to marry you."

Quentin arches his back, rutting between them and meeting Eliot's thrusts, seeking friction and force. "I'm gonna come," he whispers.

Normally he’d feel self-conscious about being on the edge this soon, but he’s been worked up all day and it’s entirely Eliot’s fault. 

"Yeah. Come on my cock, sweetheart. Let me watch the man I'm gonna marry come all over me. Fuck, Q, I'm going to fill you up. Gonna make you mine for the rest of our lives," Eliot babbles into his neck, fucking into Quentin harder and faster and giving him exactly what he needs to go tumbling over that precipice. 

"Yours," Quentin pants. "Always yours, El." 

And then he's coming, white hot and tight, sparks along his spine like a summer storm, quick flashes of lightning and sharp cold rain followed by warm, heavy steam, shocking and soothing by turns. 

He's vaguely aware of Eliot pulsing inside of him, of the slick feeling of being filled, of Eliot chanting his words back to him, a soft "yours, yours, yours" giving way to heavy breathing. And then Eliot collapses on top of him, sweat-slippery and solid. 

They lie like that — chests rising and falling, pulling in air like they’ve been just on the brink of drowning and then slowing, slipping into satisfaction — for long enough that Quentin starts to drift off. 

"Hey,” Eliot says softly, pulling him back from sleep. “Happy birthday, Q." He rolls to the side and props himself up on an elbow. "Was this a good gift?" he asks, bringing Quentin's left hand up to rest on his chest. 

"The best," Quentin answers, grinning. Eliot lights up. "But, um, if you still have that archeology gear… I may have one more request."

"Anything for my future husband," Eliot says with a laugh. And Quentin, for every doubt he’s ever had about every good thing in his life, is absolutely sure that he means it.

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of [Quentin Coldwater's Birthday SmutFest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Quentin7201992). It's still July somewhere, right? 
> 
> Thank you to RAO for the inspiration and endless support, and an extra huge thank you to [Gigi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldwaughtersq) for looking it over. 
> 
> Title from warm blood by flor. 
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](https://wanderingmargo.tumblr.com/). Thank you for reading!


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